


the notion that these lives do never end

by downtheroadandupthehill



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Combeferre can see ghosts, Grantaire is a ghost, M/M, hints of drug overdose, warning for being really sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only thing more awkward than having a dead accidental roommate is falling in love with aforementioned dead accidental roommate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the notion that these lives do never end

Of all the things in the world Combeferre needs right now, he’s pretty certain that the dark-haired ghost staring almost fixedly at his best friend’s ass, is the last of them.

“You’re kidding me,” he can’t help but say aloud.

Enjolras gives him an odd look, as he sets down the last of the moving boxes--bending over to do so, and making the ghost smirk interestedly behind him--but doesn’t say anything.

The ghost doesn’t even glance up at Combeferre, because, of course, he’s certain that he isn’t talking to _him_.

“Do you want any help unpacking?” Enjolras offers, wiping sweaty palms on the front of his jeans. It’s been a long day for both of them, moving Combeferre out of their shared apartment and into this one-bedroom a few blocks away.

A lot of hassle, and all because Combeferre couldn’t sleep at night in their old place, what with the dead girl from the nineteenth century haunting his bedroom and sobbing all night long. Not that Enjolras noticed that, which was why Combeferre had made up some excuse about his long hours and how he’d really rather have some more space of his own. The new place he’d found was small and had paint speckled all over the carpet and the walls, but when the landlord had shown it to him, seemed mercifully unhaunted.

Apparently that was not the case.

“No,” Combeferre says to Enjolras, because the sooner Enjolras leaves, the sooner Combeferre can quietly try to not freak out because _another ghost you’ve got to be kidding me_. “I’m off work tomorrow, so I’ll just do it then. For now let’s each get some rest.”

Enjolras reaches out and briefly clasps his shoulder, gives him a small nod before heading out the door. No goodbyes necessary--one of them will probably show up on the other’s doorstep tomorrow afternoon with tea. Courfeyrac calls them codependent platonic husbands, which neither of them can really argue with.

As Enjolras closes the door behind him, the ghost mutters to himself, “Ex-boyfriends, hm.”

He used to think it might be a gift--seeing ghosts, being able to speak to them. Maybe it was some vital twist of fate, and Combeferre was meant to help them, help them move on to wherever it was they were supposed to be. Not everyone died and became a ghost, so that had to mean that there was somewhere else they could go. It seemed logical, anyway. He’d take the time to speak to them, and as an adolescent, even go on lengthy road trips to give their last regards or regrets to long-lost living lovers or family members, in the hopes that it might help the ghosts move on.

Nothing ever worked, and Combeferre--persistent and curious about almost everything--gave up. He’d make small talk with ghosts when he came across them, and then do his best to ignore their existence. Living with one was harder, as he’d learned with the ghost of the girl in Enjolras’s apartment. Her name was Cosette and she was kind, with wide, sad eyes--and completely unavoidable. Her nightly weeping spells were especially unbearable.

He still feels guilty, about leaving her. About leaving all of them, really, trapped in buildings with no one to talk to. But there’s nothing he can do, something he resigned himself to ages ago.

Making the presence of yet another incorporeal roommate just a tad unwelcome.

The ghost busies himself peering into Combeferre’s moving boxes, taking a particular interest in his DVD collection.

“Let’s hope this one has better taste in movies than the last,” he grumbles, not even startling when Combeferre clears his throat.

“I can see you, you know,” Combeferre finally says, loudly, taking care to stare right at the ghost.

And _that_ definitely startles him--his head flying up, bright blue eyes fixing on Combeferre. “Are you actually talking to me?” he asks. “You can hear me and see me and you aren’t talking to something else? Like an insect on the floor or some shit?”

Combeferre sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes, you. The dead guy in my living room.”

The ghost’s face lights up with a smile. “You can _talk_ to me.”

“Yes, I can.” Because as much as Combeferre might dislike this, he doesn’t have the heart to tell him so. “My name is Combeferre.”

“Your ex-boyfriend is really hot. Can’t believe you let that one get away.” The ghost’s words are rushed, like he’s full of things to say and the words are tripping over themselves in their hurry to get out. “I’m Grantaire.” A brief side-eye. “You’re not dead too, are you?”

“I’m very much alive. And he isn’t my ex-boyfriend. Or my boyfriend.”

“That’s a damn shame,” Grantaire says, and shakes his head. And then, “Sorry. About me. This is really weird. I’m not used to this. The talking to a person thing.”

Combeferre takes a deep breath. “I was rather hoping not to have another haunted apartment.”

“Oh, don’t leave.” Grantaire moves a few steps closer, and reaches up, like he might clutch desperately at Combeferre’s shirt, if he could. “You’re much more interesting than anyone else who’s lived here. Well, mostly because you can talk to me. But. Still.”

Combeferre looks closely at him, at Grantaire the (friendly?) ghost. He’s fairly inconspicuous, as far as ghosts go. Not covered in gaping wounds and blood-soaked rags, or muttering obscenities to himself and pacing habitually around the room, like ghosts who’ve been around for decades tend to do. Dressed in flannel gray sweatpants and a dark green hoodie, with no socks or shoes--he looks like he died here at home in some sort of not particularly eventful manner. He might even look like a live person, if it weren’t for the blue tinge to his lips and the deep, dark circles under his eyes. Well, that, and the fact that he’s currently standing right in the middle of a pile boxes, legs and feet literally going through them. But ghosts do those sort of things without noticing, Combeferre has realized over the years.

“You don’t cry all night long, do you?” Combeferre asks him.

“No?” Grantaire is clearly puzzled by the question. “Should I?”

“Please no, don’t,” Combeferre says, half in wonderment at himself that he’s actually considering this, considering staying in the apartment with Grantaire the ghost rambling about all day and night. “Can I count on you to respect my privacy?”

Grantaire puts his hands in his pockets--strange, that ghosts have pockets--and shrugs. “I guess I won’t creep on you in the shower, if it means that much to you. Never really mattered to anyone else, before. But since you can see me it’s probably different.”

“Yes. It is. And--” This is probably the most important part. “Can we not do that thing where you bother me when I have company over? And then I’m carrying on two conversations at once and my friends think I’ve lost it because I’m talking to the air? Can we just not do that?”

It’s got to be one of the worst parts of seeing ghosts--the awkwardness it adds to social gatherings, like a badly predictable sitcom. At least Enjolras has gotten somewhat used to Combeferre’s tendency to nod or shake his head at something just over his shoulder, and occasionally talk to that something. Luckily Enjolras just accepts it as another one of his beloved friend’s odd quirks, like his moth hobby.

Grantaire cringes and nods eagerly in agreement. “Yes, yes. We won’t do that. I understand. So you’ll stay?”

Combeferre nods. “As long as you’re a little more subtle about checking out Enjolras, now that you know you have an audience to it.” He has a feeling he’s going to regret this--but he doesn’t want to to move again if he doesn’t have to, and doesn’t have the time for it, anyway. Long shifts at the hospital all this week and the next, and he’d already taken two days off to give himself enough time to move into here.

“Is Enjolras the super hot not-boyfriend?”

Combeferre barely resists the urge to put his face in his hands in utter defeat.

…..

He tries to make it through the majority of his unpacking that night, because that means more time to relax and possibly pretend at normalcy tomorrow. Grantaire stays relatively quiet, sprawled out on the couch or leaning against the doorframe (or pretending to do those things, since he doesn’t have a body to do them with), only occasionally peering over Combeferre’s shoulder at things he finds interesting.

“Holy shit, they made a TV show out of _Game of Thrones_?” Grantaire asks, when Combeferre begins to shelve his small DVD collection.

Combeferre nods, turns to look at him with one quirked eyebrow.

“I really like--liked, whatever--the books.” He shoves his hands in his pockets again. It must be some sort of nervous habit he has, Combeferre notes. “Do you think when you leave the house you could put it on for me? Sorry. I know that’s stupid. And electricity bills and whatnot. I’m like a needy pet dog, aren’t I? Except you don’t have to feed or water me, and I can’t piss on the floor. But it’d be cool to watch something good on TV.” Grantaire shrugs then, as if his long spiel is of no real consequence. “Sorry,” he says again.

“I’ll try and put the show on for you when I leave sometimes,” Combeferre says quietly, and moves on to stacking his considerably larger book collection on their shelves.

He tries not to feel self-conscious, with Grantaire watching him. It’s different than simply having another person in the room with him. Another person who might alphabetize his books or dust the old blinds hanging in the bedroom or run down to the corner store for a frozen pizza and a six-pack of beer.

But ghosts--they’re spectators, forced to the sidelines to watch and to comment and want. None of them can hide that. The hospital is full of them, and many gravitate to the cafeteria at lunchtime for simple pleasure of watching people eat, envious and sometimes angry. From the corner of his eye while he stacks his books, Combeferre sees Grantaire’s fingers twitch, and he pities him. He can’t imagine being trapped in an apartment full of books and being unable to even touch them, feel the comforting texture of pages beneath his fingers, accidentally smudging the ink on the cheaper paperbacks. Sometimes it isn’t even the stories or the words that matter.

Living among ghosts has made Combeferre more contemplative about these things than he might be, otherwise.

Against his better judgement, Combeferre is bursting with questions. He usually is, when in contact with a ghost cognizant enough to answer them. Even if there’s nothing he can do for them--aside from letting them watch his DVDs, apparently--he doesn’t mind getting to know them, when he can. Although it makes the knowledge that there’s nothing he can do for them more difficult.

In all his years of talking with ghosts, Combeferre is still unsure about certain things. Namely, ghost etiquette. Just as one is not supposed to ask a woman her age or her weight, he’s always wondered if ghosts find it rude to ask them how long they’ve been dead, how they died.

Instead he turns to Grantaire and asks: “How long did you live here?”

Grantaire is lounging on the couch. He raises his eyebrows at Combeferre, tilts his head back in amusement. Some of his hair falls back from his forehead--it’s black, tight-sprung curls, and looks like he’s just gotten out of bed. Perpetual ghost bed head; Combeferre has seen stranger things. “I _lived_ here for about six months. Nearly six years being dead here, though.”

“Ah,” Combeferre responds, attempting to be delicate. He’s better with patients than with ghosts, even though he’s been at the ghosts for much longer. Grantaire is silent, after that, and Combeferre doesn’t push.

By one in the morning, he’s exhausted and covered in a layer of sweat. He’s got the majority of the living room and kitchen thrown together, and barely enough energy to put sheets on his mattress in the adjoining bedroom. Grantaire is perched awkwardly on the couch--floating, in all actuality, eyes closed, chest rising and falling steadily with the sort of breathing that signifies sleep. It’s unnerving, ghosts seeming to breathe, but old habits die hard.

_Oh_ , Combeferre thinks, and feels torn between laughing and crying. He never makes those sort of jokes to himself intentionally. He doesn’t bother to wake Grantaire.

After a quick, lukewarm shower, Combeferre sleeps well for the first time in weeks.

…..

As predicted, Enjolras shows up at his door late in the morning, carefully balancing two travel mugs and a bag of whole wheat bagels with vegan cream cheese.

“Breakfast?” he offers, and Combeferre gratefully takes the bag of bagels from him. Typically Enjolras is the one in need of feeding and taking care of, but it’s nice to know that he’s capable of doing the same for Combeferre, when necessary.

Grantaire woke up before Combeferre did, his spot on the couch empty earlier that morning, but Combeferre knows he must be lurking around somewhere, out of sight--at the sight of Enjolras stepping into the apartment he appears, however, pushing his index finger to his lips in a gesture of _yes, yes, I’ll be quiet_. He rolls his eyes, too, and Combeferre focuses his attention back on Enjolras as they each have a sip of coffee at the tiny kitchen table.

“I need to get a coffee maker,” Combeferre muses.

“Because the only one you’ve ever owned is being held hostage in my kitchen, yes,” Enjolras says.

“At least you’ve figured out how to work it.”

Enjolras huffs, and Combeferre smiles. Behind Enjolras, where Grantaire is leaning against the back of his chair, Grantaire sighs dreamily, his chin resting in his hands.

“I know I’m not supposed when you have company over, but can you get him to take a shower here sometime? It can’t hurt to watch if he doesn’t know I exist, right? Not that those skinny jeans leave much to the imagination anyway.”

Combeferre raises the coffee mug to his lips again, hoping it’s enough to hide his blush.

And after Enjolras helps him to unpack and organize the rest of his things and they unfold all of the cardboard boxes in order to stash them under his bed--while Grantaire tries to stare at his ass in a less overt manner, and scoffs loudly when they discuss their political organization--Enjolras leaves, and Combeferre flops down onto the sofa.

“You should go grocery shopping,” Grantaire says, suddenly beside him. “Just because you can talk to ghosts doesn’t mean you are one. Sustenance, et cetera. Who will leave the TV on for me and listen to my stupid remarks if you waste away to nothing?”

Combeferre wants to argue--he isn’t the arguing type, not really, but for the moment he’s enjoying just _sitting_ too much to want to get up. But he is definitely the responsible type, and being the responsible type means having healthy food in his refrigerator and feeding himself on a regular basis. The half-empty container of cream cheese won’t cut it, he supposes.

Grantaire doesn’t have to remind him to put the first disc of _Game of Thrones_ in the player for him, before he leaves.

…..

Combeferre returns to work, after that, and the sight of the ghosts at the hospital are almost a welcome sight in comparison to the unsettling unfamiliarity of Grantaire, who lazes on his couch all day watching full discs of television shows, and complains about the repetitive title screen music by the time Combeferre comes back home. Unsettling and unfamiliar because Combeferre isn’t used to this, living with a ghost who might have been a friend, or become one.

He’s able to ignore the ghosts at work, and for the most part, they ignore him, too. They haunt the rooms and halls, muttering to themselves and groaning. Most of them are in hospital gowns, with gray hair and sagging skin--their minds slipped away from them before they became ghosts, and it’s only worsened since, and they see straight through Combeferre the way that other people see through them.

There are a dozen or so like that, and a few others, who died younger--battered and bruised or covered in blood from car accidents or suicides. These ones know him better, and used to try to talk to him. He used to talk to them, too, but now they just wave and he nods back, and that’s that.

His time is better spent helping the living--he can accomplish something that way, make an actual difference. The dead are just lost in many more ways than one.

He wonders if that’s why he became a doctor, in the first place. Maybe seeing ghosts did that to him, too.

Children never become ghosts, or at least none that Combeferre has ever seen. It’s why he chose pediatrics. The wing is full of life, and while losing a patient is always difficult, it’s not as hard as having to see them die, and _stay_.

Plus, he’s good with kids--full of easy smiles and warm words for them.

He’s better with kids than he is with ghosts, although Grantaire could be the exception to that rule, what with the way his face lights up when Combeferre comes home after a long shift.

Combeferre finds he’s full of smiles for Grantaire, too.

…..

He thinks _that_ starts after the evening Combeferre finds a dead moth trapped in the window screen in the bathroom as he’s stepping out of the shower. When he spots it, he tucks a towel around his waist, and carries it out to the living room in the palm of his hand. True to his word, Grantaire is waiting there, and not invisibly staring at Combeferre in the bathroom--though if he looks impressed by the sight of Combeferre in nothing but a towel, Combeferre refuses to acknowledge it.

He gingerly places the moth on the coffee table, before stepping into his bedroom to pull on an undershirt and a pair of blue boxer briefs, and to grab a pencil and sheet of paper from his desk. Back out in the living room, where Grantaire watches him with one eyebrow raised, Combeferre uses the latest book he’s reading (Daphne Du Maurier’s _Rebecca_ ) as a surface in his lap to draw on.

With slow, deliberate strokes of the pencil, he begins to draw the moth.

Grantaire shifts to move behind him--if he had a body, his front would be pressed to Combeferre’s back, seated together on the couch, and his chin resting on Combeferre’s shoulder. As it is, there isn’t even a change in temperature, and Combeferre more bothered by that than their sudden closeness in proximity.

“What are you doing?” Grantaire asks him, as Combeferre knew he would.

“I like moths. Insects. They’re neat.”

“You could take a picture, couldn’t you? Even the cheap ass cell phones have cameras on them nowadays, don’t they?” Grantaire’s tone isn’t even mocking--he’s genuinely curious.

Combeferre pauses, but doesn’t take his eyes off the paper. He tilts his head and squints at the few lines he’s managed so far. “I’ve never been good at art. Or writing poetry or music or anything else creative, really. And even if I was, I don’t have much time for it. But sometimes I just.” He holds up the pencil and shrugs, as if that explains everything. “It’s nice anyway, sometimes.”

Grantaire’s answering laugh is loud and sudden, catching Combeferre almost off guard. “You’re right, your art is shit. But most people’s art is, and you’ve at least got other things going for you, other things that matter. The fact that you suck at drawing is pretty inconsequential in comparison.”

“You were an artist.” An observation, not a question. Combeferre has seen paint stains on the decades-old carpet and the dusty wooden baseboards, and while they could be from anyone, he can see what was once the bits of paint trapped beneath Grantaire’s bitten-off fingernails. There’s even a smear of charcoal along the heel of his hand.

Grantaire laughs again--and there’s that mocking tone. “No. Just another college dropout, whining about how the ‘establishment’ was stifling their creation. Thought I could paint better when I was high as hell in my own apartment in the middle of the night, instead of getting out of bed at a reasonable hour to make it to class on time. Didn’t really matter though--I was shit either way.” Grantaire  doesn’t flinch when they hear Combeferre’s bedroom door slam abruptly, though he does look a little sheepish.

“I’d like to see your art,” Combeferre says quietly, instead of disagreeing.

“Too bad ghost fucking hands can’t hold a pencil or a paintbrush.” Grantaire wears a plastered-on smile, and adds in a lighter tone, “Granted, I was still probably better at it than you.”

“What happened to all the pieces you made before?”

Grantaire shrugs. “My friend Eponine came and got them. Took them to the dump, if she has any taste. Trust me, no one wants those ugly things on their walls.” But there’s no conviction in his voice, just a hollow sense of wistfulness, and Combeferre wishes that he could squeeze his hand in comfort.

…..

“I used to have glasses,” Grantaire comments one morning, while Combeferre is pouring himself a glass of orange juice, his own glasses already beginning to slip down the bridge of his nose. Grantaire pops in out of nowhere, and Combeferre barely manages not to drop the carton. As it is, he only spills a bit of juice on the counter.

“Died without them on though,” Grantaire continues, unfazed. “Probably a blessing. I’d hate to be stuck wearing them forever like this.” He plucks at the legs of his pajama pants. “And turns out dead-me has perfect vision. Who knew? Let the one lesson you’ve learned from seeing ghosts be this: die in something super sexy, alright? Speaking of which: how is your hot friend Enjolras? And all those other friends you spend time with inexplicably not-drinking at that bar? What is it you do? It has to do with all that social justice bullshit you get up to on your computer, doesn’t it?”

Combeferre, being Not a Morning Person, cannot resist the need to roll his eyes. He’s in desperate need of coffee--however, _someone_ was restless all night long, twisting and writhing within the walls that he’s trapped in, and put the electricity out.

Grantaire rolls his eyes right back--somehow this gets the coffee machine working again, with a beep and a _whirring_ noise, although the lights remain resolutely out. Combeferre lets out an exhale of relief, and dumps the orange juice down the sink.

“Why don’t you have your friends over here sometime?” Grantaire continues. “The place is big enough for a few of them to come over, isn’t it?”

“What, you want me to introduce them to you?” Combeferre asks, dryly. “Hello Courfeyrac, I’d like you to meet the ghost haunting my apartment, you can’t see or hear him, but trust me, he’s there.”

“I’m just getting a little stir-crazy,” Grantaire says, and he does sound apologetic. “And you’ve mentioned them enough times to make me curious. Are they all as hot as Enjolras? Is he still single? I swear to fucking god if I was alive, the things I do to--”

“Why do you do that?” Combeferre pours himself a cup of coffee, blows lightly on its surface to cool it quicker.

“Do what?”

“Pretend like you’re more interested in Enjolras than you are me.”

Combeferre has never seen a ghost blush before, but Grantaire is blushing now. It’s strange, how lacking flesh and blood the spirit can still mimic them, it seems, even if only rarely. The rise of color high in Grantaire’s cheeks is nothing if not endearing, and Combeferre feels the corners of his lips twitch.

Grantaire sees this, and scowls. “I’m not interested in _anyone_ because if you haven’t noticed, I’m fucking dead. Incorporeal. No fucking ghost boners for anyone over here, I promise.”

“But if you weren’t dead?” Because Combeferre can’t seem to stop himself from asking.

Grantaire regards him sullenly for a moment, and in that moment the apartment seems to _hum_ , and the lights flash on.

“Yeah, you’d be alright, I guess.”

…..

(He does invite his friends over--all at once, crowding into Combeferre’s apartment and transforming it for those few hours. Grantaire huddles in a corner, on his best behavior, watching them with his arms wrapped around his legs and his chin resting on his knees. He’s trying to smile, to reassure Combeferre that he doesn’t need coddled or taken care of, Combeferre can enjoy his friends, and Grantaire can enjoy their enjoyment.

They talk about an upcoming rally, too, which, Combeferre notices, Grantaire can’t stop scoffing and rolling his eyes at. _That_ would rile Enjolras up, if he could see it. It’s a nice thought, and a sad one.

After they’re gone, Grantaire stays in his corner, watching the room like he can see the ghosts of them still there, laughing and shouting and making plans for the future. Combeferre sits next to him, for awhile, until he understands that he won’t be able to draw him away.

“Did you have fun?” he asks him, standing up to go to bed.

“I did.” And then Grantaire snorts. “You’re a little old to be running around fighting the system though, aren’t you?”

Combeferre shakes his head.)

…..

“The protest got a little out of hand,” Combeferre explains. As soon as he makes it through the doorway, Grantaire is almost on top of him, his hands hovering and fluttering over all his fresh scrapes and bruises.

(He wants to feel for himself that Combeferre’s made it back in one piece, Combeferre realizes, and can’t help but go through the motions of it. With everything else Combeferre has been through today, certainly _that_ shouldn’t be the most difficult.)

“A _little_?” Grantaire is yelling--Grantaire who almost never yells, who mutters and curses and makes cruel, cutting jokes at his own expense, but does not yell. “After twelve fucking hours, you know, when I thought you’d be back after six at the most, and I finally get the fucking TV on but it keeps flicking through the channels, won’t stop on the goddamn news like I need it to, of fucking course, and all I can see are glimpses of ambulances and a _fucking body bag_ , and all you have to say is that shit got a little fucking out of hand.” By the end of his tirade he isn’t even yelling anymore--he’s seated on the couch, his head buried in his hands.

“More than a little, then,” Combeferre says, and perches on the arm of the couch beside Grantaire. He wants to pry Grantaire’s hands away from his face, press his lips to the centers of his palms and let him know he’s _there_ , he’s _fine_ , just a little worse for wear is all, because he is, but he can’t because Grantaire isn’t really any of those things, and never will be. “There was a lot of fighting, and police were there with tasers and pepper spray and everything turned into more of a riot than a protest, but I’m all right.”

“You’re so fucking stupid.” Grantaire doesn’t lift his head to look at him. “What if something had happened to you?” He laughs bitterly, and Combeferre think he can hear the sob that threatens at the back of his throat. “ _I’m_ stupid. And selfish. Who am I to lecture anyone about self-preservation? I just hate to think--” He laughs again, harsh and angry. “I just don’t want the last time I get to see you be because of some dumbass protest-gone-wrong, you know?”

Combeferre doesn’t respond-- _the last time I get to see you_ is ringing too loudly in his head.

He has always wondered, wondered in the back of his mind but never asked any of them, because despite his wondering he didn’t think he really wanted to know. But today he’d seen a girl he’d never met get trampled beneath a press of people struggling to save themselves, and he’s watched people die before but he hadn’t heard them screaming like she had, hadn’t watched them die without the accompaniment of a heart monitor’s flatline to go along with it.

“What’s it like? Dying?”

“Dying is the easy part,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t even need to take the time to think about it. He still isn’t looking at Combeferre--his eyes are trained on the floor instead, on his bare feet that aren’t really touching it. “You just wake up after one colossal fuck up, and you aren’t attached anymore. To your body, I mean. And you think you’re on one big crazy acid trip or something, but time is passing too slow for that. It feels like days passing--probably because days are passing, except you can’t actually feel anything.

“You hear your phone ring over and over again and you can’t answer. Same with people knocking at the door. Until one of them finally barges the fuck in--that’s a new door, you know, the front one. Eponine broke the old one down and the landlord had to replace it. And I remember trying to shake her shoulders and just fucking _screaming_ in her face, and meanwhile she’s shaking my shoulders and screaming--at my dead body, I mean--and not really seeing me at all. Not this me, the ghost me.

“That’s probably when I actually realized that I was a ghost, that I was dead. And you don’t really know what happens after that. Some people in uniforms come to pick up your body and you don’t go with it. You stay. You’re stuck.

“You scream some more at your friends who can’t hear you when they divvy your shit up into boxes. And the landlord putts around here and there trying to clean the place up, even though he’s too lazy to clean up the paint on the walls and the carpet. You have to assume that someone’s planned a funeral for you, or some sort of service or memorial, whatever’s cheap, and hope it isn’t in some shitty church with your shitty family there.

“Those are the hardest parts. And after that is simply existing, which is still harder than the dying.”

Grantaire finally raises his head, to meet Combeferre’s gaze. “You should get a shower, I think. Put some antiseptic or whatever doctor shit you use to clean those cuts, too. I’ll try not to fuck too badly with the water temperature, but no promises.”

…..

After that, Grantaire is quieter, less generous with his wicked grins and his sarcastic commentary on the relative monotony of Combeferre’s life. The lights flicker less often and the shower works perfectly, and that ought to be a relief but it isn’t, because Grantaire is curt and cold and it seems like he can hardly stand to even look at Combeferre anymore. Combeferre isn’t sure when he became so dependent on the company of a ghost, but he knows he misses the warm feeling that rose in his chest whenever he was on his way home from work or Enjolras’s or the Musain, knowing Grantaire would be there to greet him.

Grantaire is still there, of course, Grantaire is always there.

 


End file.
